


Do You Want to Know a Secret?

by RileyC



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: First Kiss, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-25 01:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10754190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: Illya picks an odd time to mention he likes Napoleon's mouth. Was it true, or the result of inhaling this gas T.H.R.U.S.H. is working on? Napoleon knows what he wants the answer to be...





	Do You Want to Know a Secret?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Bryonyashley](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bryonyashley/pseuds/bryonyashley) for all the encouragement, and nudging me in the right direction when it looked like this was stuck. Couldn't have done it without you!

 

 

“Peril?” That had been a close call. Too close. Another split second and the steel barrier would have slammed down with him trapped on the wrong side. The side filling up with gas. The gas may have been lethal, it may have only knocked him unconscious for T.H.R.U.S.H. to pick up afterwards. Napoleon would never know as Illya had reached him at the last possible moment and dragged him to safety. He could live with the mystery. “You can let go now.”

 

Illya grunted something unintelligible in Russian and kept Napoleon pinned against the wall. “You have good mouth, Cowboy,” he said, blue gaze fixed on that particular feature.

 

Napoleon quirked an eyebrow, not sure how to process that comment. “Ah… Thank you?”

 

Illya ignored him, continued with his appraisal. “Is not a pretty mouth,” he said and freed one hand as he spoke. Napoleon could have gotten loose at that point but he was curious to see where Illya was going with this.

 

“Is masculine, firm,” Illya continued. He touched his index finger to Napoleon’s bottom lip, stroked it back and forth with an air of deep contemplation that was doing dangerous things to Napoleon’s composure. “Is soft too, just enough,” Illya said, his voice dropped to a husky whisper.

 

Could Illya feel his breath as it grew more rapid, catching with every caress? They were standing so close… Could he feel Napoleon’s heartbeat? “Just enough?” he prompted when Illya drew the finger down to his chin, fascinated with the dimple now.

 

“To make me wonder--” Something flickered in Illya’s eyes, an awareness creeping back that had nothing to do with the sirens going off all around them or the gunfire in the distance. He jerked his hand away, backed across the hallway. “How such stupid things come from it,” he said in an approximation of his usual tones. Napoleon thought it lacked a certain conviction.

 

“Stupid?”

 

“Will be piece of cake, you say. Nothing will go wrong. Hah.”

 

“It _was_ a piece of cake until you tripped the alarm.”

 

“Oh, is _my_  fault now?” Illya demanded in a dramatic fashion. A bit too dramatic, Napoleon thought, even for a Russian.

 

“Is no one’s fault.” Napoleon’s lips twitched with a smile--a seductive one apparently, to go by the way Illya’s gaze dipped and lingered on his mouth once more. “Or,” he drew out the single syllable, reached over to flick a bit off lint off Illya’s shoulder, “it was Gustav’s fault for blundering along like that.”

Illya’s gaze flicked sideways and down, intent on the way Napoleon continued to pick bits of lint and gravel off the jacket. “Yes, was very careless of him.” His voice had dropped to a rough murmur as he held himself absolutely still, all attention fixed on the meticulous, nimble way Napoleon’s fingers tidied him up. “Nervous Ninny.”

 

Napoleon’s lips quirked with another smile but he didn’t correct Illya. “Mr. Waverly will look after him. Now, about my lips,” he began as he brushed his hands along Illya’s shoulder--as he took his sweet time brushing his hands along those broad shoulders. “I believe you were about to-- Illya?”

 

The world flipped in a split second as Illya’s eyes went glassy and he began to slide down the wall. Unable to wrap his head around what was happening, and with his own vision growing dark, all Napoleon could do was try to ease Illya to the floor. One hand braced against the wall, he fumbled out one of the communicators they had been issued, clicked it on. “Open Channel D,” he said, or thought he did. The world spun like a top and tumbled him down beside Illya, and the slim, silver communicator slipped from his fingers as the world was blotted out…

 

~*~

Rain. He could hear rain, pattering against a window pane. A soft and comforting sound, attached to memories of days spent up in his attic room, reading his way through stacks of books about swashbuckling heroes. It was a soothing sound that lulled him back down into sleep. Things were pleasant there. Nothing hurt, and nightmares were held at bay by a tall, golden angel.

 

Napoleon didn’t know why he should be dreaming of angels. Working that out would require waking up, however, and he really didn’t want to do that just yet.

 

The next time he flirted with consciousness, the rain had stopped and sunlight filtered through the curtains. He blinked, took in his surroundings one bit at a time. Not a hospital room, that much seemed certain. The slanted roof reminded him of the old attic room. So did a well-stocked bookcase in the corner. The curtains were white and fluttered in a light spring breeze. Napoleon closed his eyes, let his head fall back on the pillow, content to stay right there indefinitely. The sun was warm, the breeze was cool; it brought a scent of lilacs and birdsong with it. Were those chickens? He thought they might be. No cause for concern there. No reason not to slumber on, really.

 

Well--there was one thing, he thought as his brain got around to processing one particular image. Just a glimpse, really, as he’d let his sleepy gaze wander around the room. Had there been a man seated in a chair over by the window? Well-tailored Harris Tweed trousers with a knife-edge crease? Handmade Italian loafers buffed to perfection? Damn.

 

Napoleon cracked one eye open, confirmed the impression was reality, and saw a pleasant morning in bed slipping away.

 

“Ah, back with us, Mr. Solo?” Alexander Waverly asked, splashing milk into a cup of tea. “Care for a scone?”

 

~*~

“Yes, Mr. Kuryakin was back on his feet in no time. Quite the constitution, that one.” Mr. Waverly’s conversational tone was well-matched to the impromptu tea party.

 

Not _quite_  a mad tea party, Napoleon thought, although verging that way just a bit.

 

It was late afternoon, roughly twenty-four hours after he and Illya had collapsed in the T.H.R.U.S.H. installation. They hadn’t entirely escaped the gas after all, it seemed. Mr. Waverly’s next words made his heart sink just a bit.

 

“Gustav was correct, by the way, at least in a manner of speaking. Our chaps haven’t finished their analysis, mind, but they’ve gathered enough to determine that while it couldn’t precisely be used for mind control--brainwashing, as it were,” Waverly shuffled through a sheaf of papers, “it was by way of being a truth serum. Where did--Ah, here we are.” He slipped on reading glasses to examine the sheet of paper he’d sought. “In its final form it may well have been viable for conditioning, that was the objective. The present form only lowers one’s inhibitions, their resistance.” He looked over at Napoleon. “Not unlike a fine bottle of Scotch, eh?”

 

Napoleon dredged up a smile, mind furiously working away at the implications. He shifted against the pillows propping him up, tea sloshing into the saucer as he moved.

 

“Ah, I’ll take that, shall I?” Waverly retrieved the cup and saucer, set them down on the nightstand, careful of the lace doily that protected the wood.

 

“So the gas,” Napoleon needed to be one hundred percent certain of this, “it can’t make you do anything you wouldn’t ordinarily?”

 

“Well,” Waverly adjusted his glasses, looked through his papers again, “it works on the potential, let us say. Ordinarily one might not go about, oh, singing ‘I’m a little teapot,’ for instance, but a whiff or two of this gas, if that was on your mind at the time, well there you’d be.”

 

“Yes, I see.” Napoleon saw quite a lot, in fact. Would Peril share his vision, however? That was the question.

 

“I shouldn’t worry about any nasty side effects,” Waverly continued. “Our chaps say the effects of the gas play out after four or five hours, with nothing worse than a typical hangover to show for it.”

 

Napoleon wasn’t so sure of that. He had a feeling the effects might linger for quite some time actually. But as a dull ache of regret, or something far more pleasant? The not knowing was already gnawing at him. “I can return to work at any time then?”

 

“Absolutely. We would have woken you sooner but Miss Teller believed you could do with a bit of rest.” Waverly’s smile was benign.

 

“Gaby? She was here?” She had been pursuing a lead on her own, one that was supposed to have taken her to Salzburg.

 

“She got in late last night. Her fishing trip, alas, was unsuccessful.”

 

“Wild goose chase?” He’d thought it might be.

 

“As you say.” Waverly tapped his papers together, attached a large paperclip, and put them away in a Louis Vuitton briefcase Napoleon found he coveted a bit.

 

“Are she and Illya here? Where is here, by the way?” This was not the stylish Monte Carlo hotel they had been using as a base of operations. Another of Mr. Waverly’s infinite supply of safe houses for his agents?

 

Waverly confirmed that with a modest air. “Ah, just a little place I know in Provence. Bit of quiet, breathe some country air, does a world of good.” On his feet now, he glanced around to make certain he had everything, he added, “Miss Teller and Mr. Kuryakin are out at the moment. Little errand to take care of.” He spoke in an offhand manner, as though Illya and Gaby might have only popped out to the store to pick up bread and a bottle of milk.

 

For that very reason a thrill of alarm shot through Napoleon’s veins. He sat up, swung his legs off the bed. “They’re coming back?”

 

Waverly checked his watch in a way that was also a bit too casual. “One expects them to, yes. Well,” he smiled, “I’ll leave you to freshen up, shall I?” He nodded to himself, let himself out of the room.

 

Napoleon listened to the retreating footsteps, hauled himself to his feet at last, and went over to look out the window. He had a view that looked out onto a courtyard where chickens scratched, and a big, sleepy orange cat drowsed on a bench. It did look peaceful, inviting--romantic.

 

Best not to let his thoughts drift that direction, he decide. Concentrate on what was real, what could be done. He was wide awake now, and dreams were over.

 

As he gathered up his clothes and went in search of a bathroom--third door at the end of the hall, he discovered--he couldn’t entirely squash a thought that reality could be so much more rewarding than dreams. Such events were rare, true enough, but every now and then, usually when you least expected it, life dealt a winning hand.

 

He shut the door, briefly debated the merits of a shower or a bath, and turned on the tap. Archimedes, they said, had found a way to move the world while he took a bath. If it was good enough for Archimedes, it was good enough for Napoleon Solo.

 

~*~

It was dusk, almost dark, and Napoleon had taken the place of the cat down in the courtyard. It was perched atop the wall now, one front paw folded over the other in a regal pose, regarding him with moderate curiosity. Its ears twitched, the head swiveled to track the approach of something. Napoleon heard it then, wheels crunching over gravel, the growl of an engine. Car doors opened, closed, the sound carrying in the country quiet. The cat gave a flick of its tail, jumped down from the wall, and padded off to inspect the visitors.

 

Napoleon stayed where he was, still turning possibilities over in his mind.

 

Mr. Waverly had turned up a little while ago to report that Illya and Gaby were on their way back.

 

“They’re all right, then?”

 

“Ran into a bit of bother,” Waverly admitted. “All shipshape and Bristol fashion, though.”

 

Whatever that meant. Napoleon gathered it was encouraging.

 

Now he waited, listening to the voices that drifted out. He saw Gaby look out the door and spot him. About the same time he saw a light come on upstairs, in the bathroom. He smiled and stood up.

 

~*~

The bath, a claw-footed thing from the turn of the century, had barely contained Napoleon. Illya spilled out all over. Napoleon closed the door and leaned back against it, enjoying the picture Illya made, feet sticking out of the tub, arms hanging out, fingertips brushing the floor.

 

Illya gave him a sour look. “I have the dibs.”

 

“Not a problem. I’ve already washed.”

 

“Then what do you want?” Illya eyed him with growing suspicion as Napoleon moved closer.

 

Napoleon’s own enjoyment of the moment began to be tempered as he tracked the evidence of Illya and Gaby’s ‘bit of bother.’ One eye was bruised and would be swollen shut soon if steps weren’t taken. The knuckles of both hands were also bruised and bleeding. A cut showed on his bottom lip. And when Napoleon craned his neck, more bruises were visible along Illya’s rib cage.

 

“The other guy look worse?” he asked, and smiled as Illya grabbed a washcloth in an attempt to cover himself.

 

“More than one guy.”

 

“How many more?” Napoleon found another cloth, dipped into the warm water.

 

“Five more. And yes, they look worse.”

 

“Five?” Napoleon quirked an eyebrow, impressed. He dabbed at the bruised eye. “We’ll need ice for this.”

 

“Am fine.” Illya hunched forward, knees drawn up. “What do you want?” he repeated.

 

“We were having a conversation, rather an interesting one,” Napoleon reminded him. He waited, saw a spark of remembrance in the blue eyes, waited for the inevitable denial. While he did, he reached for the soap, ran it over Illya’s back, and felt the flex of muscle as he worked the creamy lather over Illya’s skin.

 

“There was no conversation,” Illya said, once more holding himself absolutely still. “Was gas only. I can wash myself.”

 

“Everyone needs helps with their back.” Napoleon countered smoothly, thinking of chess, of how Peril doted on the game. Not Napoleon’s particular cup of tea but he could appreciate the idea of working out moves well in advance. He had known Illya would latch onto the gas as a means to distance himself. The instant Mr. Waverly mentioned it, he’d known Illya would deny and evade and want to return to the status quo.

 

“Over my dead body,” he murmured to himself.

 

“What?” Illya squirmed around, tried to look over his shoulder. “You talk nonsense, Cowboy. Why do you come here? Why do you bother me?”

 

“Do I?” Napoleon rinsed off Illya’s back, wrung out the washcloth. “Do I bother you? Is that what you were saying, that my mouth bothers you?”

 

Illya replied with a scornful snort. “I do not think of your mouth. Why should I think of your mouth?”

 

“You tell me. I think of yours.” He moved around so Illya could see him, watched Illya look up at him, blink, look away, fair skin flushed. “I think about your smiles, I think about how to make you smile.” Napoleon dropped his voice, tried to strive for all the seductive techniques he knew. They had all deserted him, though, or none of them seemed up to this task. Did he want them to be? This wasn’t a mission, this was Illya, and that changed everything-- _everything_.

 

Feeling naked as Illya, he said, “I think about how your mouth would taste if I kissed you. Like vodka? I think--”

 

“Not vodka.” Illya watched him some mingling of fascination and alarm

 

“I think of you saying my name,” Napoleon went on, finesse thrown to wind, “like no one else says my name. I-- Oh hell.” Down on his knees, he dragged Illya’s face to his, kissed him. He tried to be careful of the cut. He tried to be suave and seductive and couldn’t manage anything except this desperate need to taste Illya, to feel him come alive and kiss him back, to feel desperation transform into exultation as Illya’s fingers combed through his hair and held him there.

 

“ _Was_  gas,” Illya insisted as they parted, came up for air.

 

“Goddammit, Peril, it was n--”

 

“Was gas let me say it. Understand?”

 

Illya looked at him with raw intensity, waited for him to work it out. When Napoleon did, he felt like a damn fool. “Oh. It _was_  the gas…” The gas had let him, not made him, say those words. “Well…”

 

“Makes difference.”

 

“It does. It does make a difference.”

 

“Would not happen otherwise.”

 

“Well,” Napoleon said again, traced a finger along Illya’s jaw, careful of the bruises, “I think it might have.”

 

“Hah. Because you are irresistible?”

 

“That, yes,” Napoleon thought he could be permitted to preen just a bit, “but also because the hero always gets his man.”

 

Illya stared at him, shook his head. “Hero gets his girl.”

 

Napoleon shook his head, leaned in to kiss him again. “Not in this story, Peril…”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> And so I dabble my toe in yet another fandom...
> 
> I have wanted to write Napoleon and Illya for a long time and always expected when the time came, it would center around the 1960s classic TV series. Fate has decreed that I never be able to watch that in its entirety. Perhaps Fate was of the opinion I would have better luck with the reboot version. Whatever the case, it's done, I have dabbled, and although I worry about Illya sounding way too much like Boris Badanov, it was fun and more dabbling may occur.
> 
> Thank you for reading this. Hope you enjoyed it. Feedback and kudos would be lovely. I'm horrible about replies but never think that means your comments go unappreciated.


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